


To Stand Tied Like Ships In The Night

by HelloDoctorMorphine



Series: Pop Punk Kids AU [4]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Closeted Relationship, High School, M/M, Suburbia, the pop punk kids au continues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 21:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2482745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloDoctorMorphine/pseuds/HelloDoctorMorphine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having one Andrew Hurley around to bat his eyelashes and say “please” will make anyone go a long way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Stand Tied Like Ships In The Night

**Author's Note:**

> If this AU ever dies, it will put on the biggest fight before it does so. I love writing this.  
> Underage warning for a consensual relationship between a legal adult and a minor. No beta, so possible mistakes. Title from Deadly Conversation by State Champs. Enjoy.

Having one Andrew Hurley around to bat his eyelashes and say “please” will make anyone go a long way.

The best part about this, according to Patrick, is that Andy is the last person anyone would expect to be this manipulative. Joe, for all his annoyances, is wise beyond his years, and has no piercings or tattoos, a winner with suburbans of all kinds. Pete learned how to bend most people to his will simply by studying political science. Patrick…

Well, Patrick’s shit at anything deceptive - he doesn’t count.

But the second Joe leans back on the carpet of the band room and starts groaning about how his mom still hasn’t said if she’ll let him go on the tour they’re planning, Andy gets this _look_ , this determined kind of glare that makes him look like he’s about to beat someone into submission with a particularly impassioned speech on animal cruelty.

“We’re driving to your house,” he declares, standing up, nostrils flaring. 

About five minutes, the four have shoved themselves into Andy’s car, and Andy drives to Joe’s house with habitual ease. The only difference is that his back is stiffer, his neck is crunched up, and his medium brown eyes are slitted, like he’s trying to burn the windshield with his glare. 

Patrick watches the veins in his hands pop as he moves the clutch to park his car in front of the Trohman’s modest household. 

He turns to Joe. “Well? Walk us in.”

Joe panics, squeaking as he jumps out of the car.

Andy gets out, and Pete and Patrick follow sheepishly as Andy walks to the door, Joe running a little to pass them all. 

Joe fishes his house key from his pocket, and opens the door, calling out, “mom?”

There’s genuine _terror_ in his voice. Patrick reminds himself to never, ever, _ever_ piss Andy off.

“Oh, hi, Joe,” Mrs. Trohman calls out, “who else is there?”

“Just… Just the band,” Joe laughs nervously. 

“Oh, perfect! Bring them in, I have cookies,” she says.

Pete perks up, eyebrows flying towards his hairline. Patrick rolls his eyes at him, half endearing, half exasperated. Nevertheless, the four walk into the kitchen, greeted with the smell of chocolate chip cookies. 

Mrs. Trohman is a sweet little lady that barely reaches the height of her son’s collarbones, with the same bright blue eyes and curly, chocolate brown hair, hers pulled back into a tight bun. She is blissfully oblivious of the same band-related drama that Mrs. Stump and Mrs. Wentz have found themselves ensnared in, so when she notices Patrick’s and Pete’s fingers tangled together out of habit, she jumps up a little in surprise, before blushing and providing them with an apologetic smile. 

It’s almost like she’s trying to tell them that she’d march in a Pride parade to support them, and Patrick loves her instantly.

“So, what’s up?” She asks.

Andy clears his throat, and Patrick’s stomach drops.

Andy’s entire mask of determination has been dropped, replaced with a gentle smile, a straight back, and widened eyes that bat like butterfly wings. 

“Mrs. Trohman, yes?” He starts, and his voice is high and lilty, almost _innocent._ “Hi, I’m Andy. Hurley. I play drums in your son’s band.”

She returns with an equally friendly smile. “Oh, you’re the one that works at an animal shelter on weekends, right?”

Patrick steps back and watches in sheer horror as Andy expertly traps Mrs. Trohman in his ‘model citizen’ act, kissing ass like his life depends on it and smirking as Joe’s mom buys every last second of it.

Having one Andrew Hurley around to bat his eyelashes and say “please” will make anyone go a _long_ way.

 

March has allowed the weather to clear up a little bit, has siphoned a little bit of the bitter winter chill out of the Illinois air, and Patrick and Pete can now sit on the Stump’s front porch without having to run inside after ten minutes. 

But they still have to be on the front porch, on display for an entire suspicious neighborhood to track their movements, and within watch from the Stump’s kitchen. While Pete has taken these small freedoms with stride, Patrick still checks up and down the street, in every one of their neighbor’s windows, before he’ll scoot closer to Pete. 

Homosexuality is unnerving.

“So, I think we can definitely cut out June for touring,” Pete says, cheerily, “your mom would be okay with it if we designated Andy as a chaperone, right?”

Patrick snorts despite himself. “If my mother even considers letting me go,” he mumbles. 

“Speaking of letting you go, can you come see Set Your Goals with me next weekend?”

“Are Joe and Andy coming?”

“Joe. Andy’s nursing kittens at the shelter that night, he’s told me already,” he says. 

“Then probably,” Patrick nods. 

Pete pouts. “I just want to go to a show with _you_ ,” he says, “Joe bitches too much about being a third wheel. I’m getting desperate.”

“Desperate for…?”

Pete snorts, lolling his head onto Patrick’s shoulder, tangling his fingers into the collar of his shirt. “For not having to take a fucking _supervisor_ whenever we hang out,” he mutters, darkly. 

“Hey, it was this, or gay camp,” Patrick reasons.

“We both know your mother wouldn’t send you to gay camp,” Pete shrugs, “she’d just expect you to find a nicer boy.”

“Shouldn’t having Andy as a friend be proof of your being a good person? Like, one of your best friends has devoted himself to saving animals and stopping feminism in its tracks. That should at least be somewhat representative.”

“Yeah, totally. Certification of boyfriend material,” Pete scoffs.

Patrick’s head follows the car that drives down the street, before leaning down to kiss Pete’s temple. “You’re total boyfriend material, dumbass. My mother just doesn’t like you because you’re old.”

“...That’s all it comes down to, isn’t it?” Pete says, voice cracking on revelation. 

“Yeah, most likely,” Patrick shrugs. “Compared to me, you’re, like, Hugh Hefner’s age.”

“Oh my god. You’re a golddigger, aren’t you?” Pete laughs. 

“Totally. I’m only after you for your money. I’m waiting till you finally die of a stroke, grandpa.”

Pete pokes Patrick’s side. “You dick.”

Patrick laughs, noses at Pete’s head, before he presses a kiss to the crown of his skull. He notices that he didn’t look before he carried out the action, and mentally pats himself on the back for it. 

 

As Patrick walks into school Monday morning with Joe, a pamphlet gets shoved into his hands by a thin, small girl with long black hair and large hazel eyes.

“Have a good day!” The girl calls out, as she gives a tall, but unassuming girl with an A-line haircut another pamphlet.

And then Patrick looks down at the pamphlet.

A group of teenagers laugh at the camera on the front, the picture set on a purple background. Blocky, white letters proudly proclaim: _New Trier High School’s GSA - we’re back and better than ever!_

Patrick has a fleeting memory of the GSA getting shut down last year because some mother complained about how the kids running it were ‘spreading propaganda’ and other such  
bullshit along those lines. Patrick supposes he’s happy for them, but now he has to look over his shoulder, wonder if the girl who gave him the folded piece of paper _knew._

Joe looks down, takes the paper from him. “Ooh, sweet, GSA! I’ll go with you if you want.”

Patrick gives Joe a foul look, before punching his arm. “Asshole.”

“Well, hey, it could be fun,” Joe reasons. “Besides, it’s good to know who’s part of your… _Brethren_ here.”

“Brethren? Are you serious?” Patrick frowns. 

“Well, hey, I can’t be your only support for that long,” Joe says, getting his phone out of his pocket and opening the camera app so he can check his hair. “I only know so much.”

Patrick shakes his head in disbelief. Joe Trohman is wise beyond his years when his sayings are needed.

They round the corner, and enter their shared Algebra II class, sitting next to each other. Patrick gives another forced, fleeting look at the pamphlet. 

“I can’t go,” Patrick shakes his head. 

“Your reputation here’s already fucked, why not?” 

“Exactly my point! My reputation’s already fucked, I can’t make it worse. No one likes us, and no one likes the GSA. Put two and two together-”

“Patrick, you can’t stay in the closet forever. Eventually, the stale air chokes you,” Joe mutters.

Patrick wonders if you become some kind of sage when you listen to Man Overboard and smoke weed for more than a year every weekend.

 

The treehouse, miraculously, has not been discovered by Patrick or Pete’s parents yet.

Patrick’s currently sat in Pete’s lap, out of breath, pants only half-zipped and still not re-buttoned, arms around his shoulders, face against Pete’s neck.

“You’re a dipshit,” Patrick hisses.

“I’m also very good with my hands,” Pete laughs back, a little on the quiet side to try and not alert anyone in the Wentz house if they’re still awake. “Hey, ten bucks I can sneak lube and condoms up here?”

“I’m not getting fucked on this thing, and neither are you.”

“Why?”

Patrick’s eyes widen. “What if the platform broke? I refuse to fall ten feet and be found with my dick out and both legs broken.”

Pete cackles, hyena-like, into Patrick’s shoulder. “That is a mental image that I don’t expect to leave anytime soon.”

“Asshole.”

“Yeah, but I’m _your_ asshole,” Pete smiles, leaning back to kiss Patrick. 

Patrick kisses back, breaking away to smirk and say, “yeah, sure.”

Pete edges his lips back to Patrick’s, and Patrick hums happily, until he sees someone open the side gate and run across the yard, scooting against the Wentz’s fence to be in the shadows.

“Pete,” Patrick hisses out, pushing Pete’s face away. 

Pete makes an indignant sound. “What?”

“There’s someone in the backyard-”

Patrick’s cut off when the Wentz’s back door opens, a split second squeak that cuts through the backyard like a knife. Pete jumps up, the hairs on his neck standing up.

“Who is-” Pete gasps. “Andrew?”

“There’s someone against the fence, just so you know,” Patrick gasps out as he tries to do the button on his jeans as quickly as possible.

“ _What?_ ” Pete aks, panicking, turning just in time to see the person run across the rest of the yard to the base of the tree, Pete’s brother making a mad dash to do the same.

Pete knocks Patrick off his lap, and looks down the tree from the entryway at the bottom of the treehouse.

“Pete?” Patrick hears Andrew ask.

“Damn fucking _right_ , asshole, go somewhere else!”

“Pete, it’s okay, I shouldn’t even be here,” Patrick reasons, before getting cut off when Andrew hisses, “ _is that Patrick up there?_ ”

“You know what? Maybe it is, Pete snarls.

“I’m telling Mom,” Andrew says.

“What, and get your little friend caught as well?” Pete changes his tone of voice. “Hi, honey, are you that Tanya chick that Andrew was telling me about?”

Patrick crawls over to the entrance and looks down, meeting eyes with Andrew. 

“...Sup,” he says, paired off awkwardly with a nod.

Andrew gives him a vicious glare. The girl, Tanya, waves, smiling awkwardly. She has short, blonde hair that sits around her shoulders, and looks absolutely tiny, huddled up in a fleece jacket. Patrick hesitates, before waving back, stomach dropping in realization that, minus the visored beanie, hoodie, Weezer shirt, and specific facial features, he looks disturbingly similar to Tanya, and _Jesus Christ, the Wentz boys have a type_.

It seems she might have realized that, too.

“Get the fuck outta here, Andrew, no one loves you! Go find a bush or something else to dance around. We’ve staked out this tree since January-”

“That’s not good information for him to have, dumbass,” Patrick hisses.

“That’s so gross, man!” Andrew growls, “did your dick fall off from the cold already?”

“I’ll cut yours off if you ever tell mom!” Pete spits back.

“Wow, you guys are really mature,” Tanya whistles. 

“I know, right? The Wentzes are funny,” Patrick laughs.

Andrew and Pete’s arguing stops in its tracks when the kitchen light suddenly goes on, flooding the backyard in light. 

The four’s eyes widen, and Tanya makes a wild jump, grabbing at the treehouse’s ladder and climbing it as fast as she can. Andrew follows suit as Pete and Patrick rush to fold the corner of the tarp over to cover them. It’s an unfortunately practiced movement.

It’s terrifyingly quiet as Mr. Wentz opens the back door, and, wrapping his bathrobe around him, glares a circle around the backyard, before making a relatively audible comment about loud squirrels, closing the door and turning the lights off.

The four’s shared exhale speaks volumes.

“Okay, but this is _our_ fucking claim, Andrew,” Pete dictates, “now go away.”

 

Patrick does a little double take when he sees his mother at the back next to the bar at Fall Out Boy’s next show. 

She’s frowning thoughtfully as she swirls a plastic cup of what’s probably a gin and tonic; she’s sitting next to a cheery, bouncing Mrs. Trohman, and, oddly enough, William. William’s flanked by his bandmate, Sisky, and one of their friends, a hippie-ish dude with dark hair and the beginnings of a beard named Jon; William is talking to Mrs. Stump about something that seems to require a lot of talking with his hands, and Sisky and Jon are both headbanging a little, giving uneasy looks to Mrs. Stump.

Patrick sings with a little more power in his voice, and prays that Pete sees Mrs. Stump so he doesn’t do anything along the lines of licking Patrick’s neck.

Pete doesn’t lick Patrick’s neck, but he _does_ kiss it. Patrick notices his mother jumping up in a slightly disgusted form of shock. Even Mrs. Trohman stops jumping to  
let her eyebrows raise. While Mrs. Stump stays shocked, Mrs. Trohman continues dancing, already over Pete’s antics. 

God bless Mrs. Trohman, Patrick thinks. Someone needs to give her a damn bouquet.

They finish their set with Patron Saint, and immediately clear the stage as fast as they can.

As Patrick sets the bass drum, hanging toms, and ride down next to the minivan - really, they should get their own van - he can see Mrs. Stump walking across the parking lot. He helps Andy load the drums in, and lets her finish her trip towards him.

“Patrick?” She calls out as Patrick takes the ride cymbal off its stand and slips the cymbal into a sleeve. 

Patrick looks up, and feigns seeing her for the first time. “Oh, mom! Hey.”

Mrs. Stump looks uncomfortable, not knowing what to do. Patrick hastens to put the cymbal so he can hug her.

“Wanna come get our guitars with me?” He asks.

Mrs. Stump shrugs, laughing awkwardly. “Alright.”

As they walk back into the venue, Mrs. Stump sighs, clapping.

“So, I was talking to Joe’s mother, and I was thinking about letting you go on tour with your band in June.”

Patrick stops in his tracks. “...What?”

Mrs. Stump nods. “It’s not the most favorable situation, but I’ve decided that if this is what you _really_ want to do, then I as a mother should help you the most I can.”

Patrick’s jaw hangs open.

“Close your mouth, God knows what could fly into it in here,” Mrs. Stump smiles. 

Patrick keeps walking, turning the corner so he can make it to the guitars that Pete’s guarding.

“Come to save me from my post?” Pete laughs, before the sound dies in his throat as he meets eyes with Patrick’s mom. “Oh. Uh… Hi, Mrs. Stump.”

“Hi, Peter,” she smiles, a little forced, but not necessarily hostile. “What do you need me to carry?”

Pete frowns. “Are you sure you want to carry this stuff? Like, a guitar in a hard shell case is pretty heavy-”

“Peter, give me something to carry.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, bends down, picks up his guitar and one of Joe’s, and hands his own guitar to his mother. “Here.”

Mrs. Stump slips her hand into the handle, and lets the case rest against her thigh. Patrick can tell that the weight is putting strain on her shoulder, but she’s trying to not show that she’s in pain. Patrick’s heart falls a little with the realization that she _actually wants to help_ , actually wants to see him _succeed_.

It’s a little surreal.

Patrick nudges a little next to Pete, who has his bass and Joe’s guitar swing on either side of him from in their cases. As Mrs. Stump walks ahead of them, he perks up and says,  
“so, tour.”

Pete’s head whips around so he can stare at Patrick in disbelief. “Really?”

Patrick grins wide, nodding his head enthusiastically. Pete squeals, jumping up and down as the venue doors close behind them. He wraps an arm around Patrick’s shoulders, bass hitting Patrick’s chest, and leans his head down to kiss him. The meet of lips is botched, and ends up being Pete’s face falling into Patrick’s clumsily. Their teeth knock together, but Pete uses the contact to push Patrick’s head back so he can turn it into an actual kiss. 

Patrick breaks the kiss to move Pete’s head back, saying, “dude, you almost pushed me over.”

Pete shrugs, grimacing as he continues walking. “Sorry.”

Patrick quickly glances over to his mom, but she’s talking to Andy as she helps him puts the guitar away. Andy seems to be chatting with her enthusiastically about how his new job at the shelter is going, and she nods and smiles in return.

“We’re gonna make it,” Patrick whispers, out of the blue.

“Huh?” Pete asks.

Patrick shakes his head, grinning, and puts Joe’s guitar down so he can wrap his arms around Pete’s shoulders, standing on his toes so he can kiss Pete. 

This time, it’s soft, gentle, reassuring, and shrouded in streetlamps.

**Author's Note:**

> While I adore this AU to death, I'm basically writing this thing while racing against the clock; since National Novel Writing Month is in November, and I will be writing my fourth novel in that time span, I will have to put this on a month-long hiatus. So, I'm cranking this like mad, and prompts would really help me... Well... Crank. Send a prompt in an ask on my Tumblr, cartoonsaboutjoey, or leave a prompt in the comments.


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